


let slip the dogs of war (and havoc cry)

by screechfox



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Minor Character Death, Season/Series 04, Slaughter!Jonathan Sims, episode 153
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 16:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21121922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox
Summary: Somewhere in the process of driving a knife into Trevor Herbert’s heart, Jon realises that the Slaughter is affecting him. He also realises that he doesn’t particularlycare.





	let slip the dogs of war (and havoc cry)

**Author's Note:**

> *ticks another entity off my jon AU bingo card*
> 
> yes, because i'm shameless, the title is from a song by the mechanisms. listen, if the mindless violence fits...

Somewhere in the process of driving a knife into Trevor Herbert’s heart, Jon realises that the Slaughter is affecting him. He also realises that he doesn’t particularly _ care. _

Violence has never come naturally to him, but as he watches the crimson spill of blood, everything seems exactly as it should be. Jon is distantly aware of Julia shouting, _ screaming, _ but that pales in comparison to the grotesque satisfaction of watching the light fade from Trevor’s eyes. It’s like— finishing a book, a story brought to its conclusion.

Jon turns just as Julia strikes out at him. She’s all coiled strength and animal rage, and without this newfound affiliation, Jon would be dead already.

Instead, he strikes back, knife gleaming sharp and bloody. He’s scared, of course, but the terror is blending with a measured fury: how _ dare _ they come here to hurt him and the people he cares about? Doesn’t he _ deserve _ to fight back?

It’s like a dance, except Jon has never been much of a dancer, and this is as easy as breathing.

Step by step, back and forth. First blood, then second, on and on until Jon aches with adrenaline. His pulse is singing with it. His wounds barely seem to matter in the face of the certain rhythm of violence.

Julia is wounded too, but even with the Slaughter powering Jon’s movements, Julia is a far better fighter than he is. She has muscle memory, well-practiced in the language of aggression, and Jon is… well, he’s not athletic, to say the least. His breaths are coming heavy, and Julia is barely winded. Without the element of surprise he had with Trevor, this isn’t a fight Jon can win.

There are footsteps outside.

Julia hesitates.

Jon doesn’t.

His knife finds Julia’s shoulder just as Daisy steps into the room. Julia catches his face with claws as he pulls back, but the damage is done. She clutches at the wound, and her blood-slick hand is shaking. Her eyes flicker between Daisy and Jon; she’s outnumbered, and she knows it.

Jon steps forward to finish the job properly, but Daisy catches his arm.

“Jon. What the hell have you done?” Anger illuminates the tired lines of her face.

It’s easy to shrug off her grip. It shouldn’t be so easy. Jon frowns.

“I was defending myself, Daisy. What does it look like?”

“It looks like a blood-bath,” Daisy counters. There’s a vein of longing to her tone, even as she examines the scene with an air of distinct unease.

Jon feels a gunpowder-flash of irritation, and he takes another step towards Julia. She needs to die before she can hurt anyone he cares about. Her blood needs to pool on the floor, another stain for him to cover up with a cheap rug and a prayer.

“Put down the knife.” Daisy’s voice is half a growl, and Julia laughs, throaty and strained.

“You’ve got a good little lapdog, haven’t you? Nice and tame.”

“Shut up,” Jon says calmly, raising his knife in a crescendo. Now Daisy’s here and Julia is less of a threat, he wants to make this quick.

_ “Jon.” _

Jon makes eye contact with Julia. She raises her head high in a wordless taunt, and he slashes out at— thin air, as Daisy pounces on him from behind. The knife falls from his hand as he’s forced to the ground, vision sparking crimson when his head collides with the hard floor. There’s a sudden, perfect _ rage. _ How dare she? He was _ protecting _ them.

Above, there’s the shifting of fabric, and an animal snarl.

“Go,” Daisy says. “And if you ever come back…”

Distantly, Jon knows the hanging end of that sentence shouldn’t please him. But the promise of future violence is enough to soothe his fury with Daisy’s interference. He can wait for Julia to lick her wounds and regain her courage. After all, she’s not going to let her grudge go now.

Daisy lets him up once Julia’s unsteady footsteps have faded into the distance. Tension eases from his shoulders as soon as his knife is back in his hand.

“Thanks,” he says, scathing as he can manage.

“You called _ me.” _ Daisy’s teeth are very sharp in the angry twist of her mouth. “I— I could go after her myself. She’s running, now, and I could— I could…”

“Daisy…” Their mantra lingers on his tongue, except it’s suddenly so hard to understand why she _ shouldn’t _ listen to the call of the hunt. He wants, with a fervour that strikes him as odd even now, to see Daisy hunting again, even if that means all her viciousness directed at him.

“I know. The quiet.”

It takes all Jon’s willpower not to interrupt as Daisy takes deep breaths, curled in on herself. Slowly, her predatory aura begins to fade from the air, and she just looks very small.

At last, she sighs, looking up at him.

“Where did you get that knife?” Daisy asks, exhausted.

“I’ve been keeping it in my desk drawer for a few months. Since Basira and I got back from Ny-Ålesund.” Hm, perhaps the events in Ny-Ålesund helped to set off this development, like lighting a fuse. It’s worth thinking about, once he’s finished cleaning the blood from the metal of his knife.

Daisy sighs again. She looks sad, and a little lost. Jon wants to help, but all he’s been for a very long time is a weapon. He doesn’t remember how not to hurt people.

“I’ll… I’ll deal with the body,” Daisy says, staring at Trevor’s sightless eyes. “I’m good at that.”

When Daisy gets back, Jon’s office door is slightly ajar. She hesitates at the entrance.

Basira needs to be told, that’s obvious. But is Basira going to see Jon as a liability, or as a defender? Which would be the better option? Daisy genuinely doesn’t know.

Jon is sitting at his desk, humming under his breath. In his hands, he holds the knife that parted Trevor’s chest — now clean, but it’s like she can _ feel _ the blood that was on it not so long ago. It’s just psychological, Daisy tells herself, and she might even be right.

As she enters, Jon glances up at her. Whatever care he’s taken to clean his knife and his hands, it hasn’t reached anywhere else. The rumpled collar of his shirt is soaked through with crimson, and there are bloodstains running up his neck and onto his face. There are three ragged gashes on his cheek, still bleeding sluggishly. 

She’d say he looks predatory, but no, that isn’t quite right. Whatever’s happening, it doesn’t have anything to do with the Hunt. The look in his eyes reminds her of something different, _ someone _ different. He looks like Calvin, she realises, and feels nausea rising.

Well, he doesn’t _ quite _ look like Calvin. Calvin never looked so downright awkward.

“You, ah. You didn’t have any trouble?”

“No more than usual,” Daisy says, not really in the mood to talk about the too-familiar motions of burying the dead. Not exactly hunting, but it renewed her strength just enough that she could put shovel to soil and dig. The energy still floats in her veins, intoxicating and tempting.

“Good.”

“Are we going to talk about… that?”

“I’m being affected by the Slaughter,” Jon says, with a hint of impatience. “I don’t see what there is to talk about, to be perfectly honest.”

“You aren’t… worried?”

Jon lets out a bemused laugh, blinking at her.

“What? I— I’m aware that this situation isn’t _ ideal, _ but it’s better than being defenseless. I’m hardly going to…” He trails off, expression going far away, almost dreamy. He presses his fingers to a bruise forming on his chin, and Daisy is startled to see him smiling. “I’m not going to attack innocent people, Daisy,” he continues, so quiet that she doesn’t believe him for a second.

“You’re not going to attack anyone, period.”

“I should have just let Trevor and Julia kill us all, then?” Jon huffs, but there’s something eager within the annoyance. “Besides, I somehow think Basira’s efforts to ‘put me down’ would be counterproductive at this stage.”

Daisy takes a moment, breathing through a fresh wave of anger. She’s suddenly uncertain of how far Jon’s protective streak extends. She’s fairly sure she’s safe, as long as she doesn’t outright provoke Jon, but… Basira? Daisy feels a sharp urge to defend what’s hers, but— No. That’s not how it works.

“What does the Slaughter feel like?” The question rolls off her tongue before she can stop it.

Jon looks a little more normal as he considers the question, thinking carefully about his words.

“It’s not like the Hunt.” She doesn’t bother asking how he’d know. “It’s more like… a song, I suppose. And as soon as I heard it, I knew all the steps to dance. I want to hear that song again. I want things to make _ sense _ again.”

He pauses, but he doesn’t seem to have run out of steam just yet.

“I wasn’t scared of dying, when I fought Julia. The point was the dance— the _ violence. _ Who lived, who died, it was… immaterial. I know that’s— that’s not sensible, not rational. But it isn’t as though I have a bullet in my leg to cut out. Hell, doing that probably set this off in the first place.”

“You think the bullet, what, infected you?”

“I suppose. Conscription might be more apt a metaphor..”

“Can’t imagine you as a soldier.”

Jon laughs. It’s almost the dry laugh she knows, complete with a faint touch of hysteria playing around the edges. But there’s joy too, and wow, isn’t it depressing how genuine happiness is what strikes her as odd?

“Well, war does strange things to us all.”

This is bad, and Daisy has no idea how to deal with it. She can barely resist the Hunt on a good day, and _ she _ wants to give it up. Jon doesn’t, clearly, which… Well, looking at the map of scars across his skin, she can almost understand why. It must be nice not to feel like a punching bag.

“Is that everything, Daisy?” Jon asks, and the politeness of his tone is knife-sharp.

“Yeah,” she breathes, after a moment. “I suppose it is.”

Daisy stands up, making her way towards the door. If she’s a little too hasty for Jon’s standards, he doesn’t comment. As she leaves, he begins humming under his breath again, and this time she can make out the tune, if not the words. It’s a war song, a call to battle, a marching beat.

Her blood begins to pulse in time with the rhythm, and she slams the door behind her.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, you can find me at [screechfoxes](https://screechfoxes.tumblr.com) on tumblr. have a nice day!


End file.
